reducerenewrecycle

Let’s fast forward past the pregnancy news for a moment to today.  Week 8, Day 2.

This has been an eight week roller coaster.  Now, as one of the last of my friends to conceive I’ve been privy to the gory details, but I don’t recall anyone talking about how overwhelming and stressful this first part is.

First, it’s shocking as hell.  Then, it’s exciting.  That excitement turns to fear with a (false alarm) ectopic pregnancy ultrasound.  Then there’s blood. And a hastily scheduled ultrasound by a nurse who made everything worse and used the term ‘viable pregnancy’ – then just kidding, she called back after conferring with the doctor and canceled the ultrasound. Then more blood.

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what the plan is. I suppose many women feel this way and we never hear about a pregnancy until Week 12.  Perhaps I am starting to understand why.

YES!!

New Hampshire. UHH.

It took one year and fourteen days to see a license plate for every great state in this union in my metropolis.

Even if another candidate is selected to fill the position for which I interviewed yesterday, it may have been worth it just to finish my ‘thing’ with the sight of a New Hampshire license plate.

I have a new thing.  In the daily hustle and bustle, my things keep me interested and entertained.  Life would be pretty boring without them.

My friends and family give me a familiar amused smile whenever they hear me proclaim, I have a new thing. Last time, my thing was to see how long it would take to see a license plate from every state around my town.  I started with a bang last April 17 (another benefit of living at the junction of two major interstates) but now I only have one left.  New Hampshire. I figured Hawaii or Alaska would be the toughest.  Negative.  Turns out not too many Rhode Islander or Hampshirer (Hampshiranese? Hampshi? Hampshiranian? Hampsholish?  *Snort* Ha!) vehicles run through this Midwest metropolis. At least not when I’m on the road.

Today, I stumbled upon my new thing. I’m not actually sure how this idea came to be, but it probably had something to do with the same three stations always simultaneously on commercial break.  So a new thing was born: listen to a new radio station every day. Every stop on the AM and FM dials. How neat to experience new music and radio shows?  I love doing it out of town (Sunday morning Polka in Wisconsin anyone?) so why not in my wonderful hometown?

Today, I set my radio to the lowest frequency permitted and pressed the magic ‘search’ button.  It landed on a pledge drive.  Ugh.  I stuck it out and discovered the loveliness that is jazz.  I spent the morning commute wishing I was enjoying the warming blanket of a glass of wine while listening to the crickets and frogs at dusk in the perfect heat of a summer’s night. Mmmmmm…jazz.  I didn’t really get it, but I sure did enjoy it.

Regardless of what I stumble into, I decided I won’t change the radio station for 24 hours.  No matter what.  Unless it’s religious music. I just can’t do it.  Instead I’ll play sports and political talk roulette.  The only thing I can think of that would be more painful than play-by-play baseball is being trapped in a car with Rush Limbaugh.  But I’m no quitter. I will gut out a booball game or that knuckle dragger like a champ.  Besides, that’s what the volume button is for.

I love the train. When I worked downtown, I loved the 20 minute warm up and cool down to my day.  It was 40 minutes dedicated to reading or daydreaming.  Turns out, I liked the train far more than I liked that job.

The bus is a different story.  I’ve been scared of the bus for as long as I can remember.  All of the routes, all of the stops, all of the times, all of the buses – I started sweating just thinking about it. But I was determined to get home on it this weekend.

There were bus stops at three of the four corners of the intersection to which Google maps directed me. Ahh! Which one?!?!  The first two looks like weekday-only stops with routes 133-179. I needed 5. The 5B to be precise. And it’s icy. This Sherpa couldn’t possibly sprint between them whilst carrying my weekend on my back.  Crap.  The third one had a listing for the 5B. Whew. Maybe this isn’t rocket science after all.

It doesn’t give change, barked the bus driver.  I looked for the quarter owed to me.  It doesn’t give change, she spat again.  Frazzled, I wedged myself on the very first seat, my butt fighting my bag for space. The bag was winning and even the quadriceps keeping me off of the floor didn’t care.  To my left, the unshaven older man from the stop who I was certain was going to start screaming at me about the people stealing his stuff. I’ve heard plenty of urban tales about the ‘crazies’ who ride the bus. However, a screamer was the least of my worries – mental illness I get. The bus I do not. Across from me were four ladies in Hijabs and snow boots. Each downtown stop picked up riders who all looked very different from me. I didn’t care, but I stood out and was suddenly very aware of it.

Even as the gruff lady bus driver grumbled each stop, 22nd – and it’s a toss up if she was talking to me, 26th, or my fellow new-American passengers as she said this bus doesn’t go to the mall. 28th – I still worried I’d boarded the wrong bus, 30th, I’d get shanked, 32nd, one of the guys on the bus was going to follow me off and snatch my purse, 34th, where are my keys, 38th, that girl’s hair is really cute, 40th, I need to remember to note what not to pack on my next me-time adventure, 42nd, TB and I should take the bus more often, 43rd…dang it! A rider pulled the the stop cord before I could.

It was stupid to be afraid of the bus.  But I’m sure proud of myself for figuring that out.

I used to simply chock it up to I’m just bad at vacationing. I love being warm and outside, but have never been any good at sitting still, so planting my behind on a beach is exactly the opposite of relaxing.  It’s torturous.

Slowly though, I’m figuring it out.  First, the site visit to Hawaii.  In my former line of work as an event planner, it was my job to advance the event.  Whether it was marking a route at midnight and unlocking biffies at 4:00 a.m. for a fundraising walk or sampling spas and swimming with the dolphins in Hawaii for an incentive trip – it was my job to do and know everything ahead of an event.  While on said site visit, we (my then best-manager-ever, Red) would work half of the day and then meet up with TB and her husband – who had been either golfing or sampling every cocktail on the pool menu – to see the island by helicopter, swim with the dolphins, lounge by the pool, or eat at the expensive restaurants. Fifty-percent work, 50% play.  Perfect, except working vacations  like that pale quickly in the light of 40 straight 80-hour weeks.  No good.

In fact our honeymoon was negotiated to fit a working vacation model – 50% beach, 50% activity.  Half the time comprised of sloth, half the time hiking or snorkeling or playing a game – dear god anything but holding down a beach chair.

Fast forward to this week.  I think I’ve discovered the perfect vacation for me.  Two weeks ago, my boss RC told me to take some time off. Not in the friendly suggestion kind of way, but rather in the I-think-you’re-about-to-have-a-breakdown-so-get-the-hell-out-of-here kind of a way.  RC has been great and very empathetic to the situations with my mom and S, but recognized better than I that a human being can only go so long without taking care of herself.

Since TB is unable to travel at present for several reasons and I have an irrational fear of rape and murder associated with solo travel, I planned a 48-hour getaway…precisely six miles from my house. I took a staycation.  I detest that phrase as much as coining a couple ‘Bennifer’ but it’s apropos in this case.  I booked a room downtown and made a slew of spa appointments. I planned to read and write and do whatever moved me in that moment.

I checked in last night after dinner with my sweetheart.  Last night seemed wasted, reading anything and everything alone in my room.  The spendthrift in me wondered why I was spending all of this money. But by this morning, after my house made granola parfait and four hours at the spa, I was singing a different tune.  In fact, after four hours of massages and facials, I was rethinking my stance on trophy wives.

A delightfully skinny pregnant woman called Brooke did something no other masseuse has yet to accomplish.  (Well, aside from the hot stone masseuse in Hawaii, but let’s be honest, it’s Hawaii, half of her job was already done.)  Brooke coaxed the thought tornado down to a tradewind.  I actually stopped. I don’t know the last time I truly stopped my body, much less my mind. She lulled me into relaxation.  If stress were the devil, she would be an exorcist.  She’s a stressorcist.

I then meandered to my old stomping grounds and ate my favorite salad in the daylight of an atrium. I wrote for hours amidst the hustle and bustle of skyway traffic. From there I met one of my besties Rasher for dinner.  I see her religiously every week. In fact, Rasher and our other friend M might as well be my church. Anyway, due to circumstances, I hadn’t seen or really talked to her in a month.  We talked for three hours straight but in reality could have sat there for eight and not felt caught up.  Now, I’m in the hotel lobby (the alone-in-my-room thing didn’t work) drinking my fav wine, writing, and listening to killer music (O.A.R. – listen to the old stuff. The new stuff is a stripped-down commercialized version of genius.)

Tomorrow, I’ll workout, write more in the lobby, go to breakfast if I feel like it, and then learn to take the bus home.

And that’s how I rock the vacation of a stressed-out control freak.